


Secret Suppressions

by 100ottersonaplane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!John, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Omega!Sherlock, Omega!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:44:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2094426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100ottersonaplane/pseuds/100ottersonaplane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has been suppressing his omega status for years, successfully keeping it a secret from the world, and perhaps most importantly, one John Watson.</p>
<p>John Watson has been suppressing his love and attraction to his friend and flat mate for years, keeping it a secret from the world, and perhaps most importantly, one Sherlock Holmes.</p>
<p>Secrets don't always stay secrets.</p>
<p>Gift for the Johnlock Gift Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place a while after Sherlock’s return from dismantling Moriarty’s network.  
> (Mary isn’t a thing in this universe.)

John Watson was not a stupid bloke. He was often called an idiot by the World’s Only Consulting Detective but he knew that from Sherlock, ‘idiot’ was a term of endearment. And compared to Sherlock’s super computer brain, John Watson was content to admit that his own was very lacking. But John Watson was not a dumb man. He may not know the flammability of forty seven types of tobacco ash, but he knew something was wrong with his flat mate.

The detective had been calm, reserved for the past four days. He ate when John set food in front of him. Though the detective clearly wasn’t sleeping, there were no three a.m. violin sonatas, no noises at all in the flat during the night. It had all served to put John on edge. He waited with bated breath for Sherlock to shoot the wall, take up smoking again, or to set the flat on fire. (Possibly on accident from one of his experiments, possibly on purpose to see what would happen.)

John went to bed every night, thinking of Sherlock. That, of course, was nothing new. This time around, however, Sherlock wasn’t jumping off of a building or lying naked and being fucked into the mattress by John. No, his thoughts circled around how Sherlock was so unlike himself.

The detective had admitted to John all of the torture that he had gone through to take down Moriarty’s network, the evening after Sherlock’s return from the dead with the help of a couple of tumblers of whiskey and a post-death high for the both of them. Sherlock’s divulgence had ended in tears from both parties but the relief from Sherlock had been clear.

Perhaps the PTSD was making a reappearance? John would think as he’d shift in the bed, muscles tense from the worry. _No_ , he’d think. Sherlock had been honest since that night, about all of his fears and anxieties, even without the help of alcohol. Sherlock had been forthcoming to John about it all so now there was no logical reason for him to withhold. _No_ , John would think as he’d drift off, _no, this is something differen_ t. John had no choice but to wait it out.

It was on the fifth day, in the late afternoon, when it all came to a head.

John was sat in his chair with a book that he hadn’t managed to get through a sentence of. He was too distracted by the consulting detective stalking about. The lanky man had been a whirlwind of anger and snapping deductions the entire morning. All at John who knew better than to think this was all due to not having a case. Sherlock wasn’t right. John wished he knew how to broach the topic.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, three hours after Sherlock’s last words to him, a scathing set of remarks about his lackluster love life and daily wanks in the shower, as the detective returned from the toilet for the seventh time in an hour. Sherlock was frantically texting on his phone.

“Nothing,” Sherlock snapped.

“Don’t lie to me,” John directed, squaring his shoulders and abandoning his book onto the table. “You’ve been to the loo seven times in the last hour. I’m a bloody doctor.” A look passed over Sherlock's face and John thought perhaps he'd taken the wrong approach.

“Leave me alone,” Sherlock growled, flinging his dressing gown out and curling up on the sofa dramatically, facing away from John.

“Sherlock,” John tried.

“Fuck off!” Sherlock howled. "Fuck off, John!" John flinched but remained silent, mulling over the fact that Sherlock had cursed with a voice full of anger and _had that been fear_?

John sat up, leaning his elbows onto his knees to watch Sherlock’s back. Even from across the room, he could see the detective’s back expanding and contracting rapidly with his breaths.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated, the buzzing strangely loud in the tensely silent flat. Sherlock shifted to pull it from the pocket of his dressing gown. Moments later the device was flung across the room, narrowly missing John’s face before it hit the fireplace and exploded upon impact.

“Oy!” John said as the pieces of the phone scattered across the hardwood. “What is going on with you?”

“Will you just mind your own fucking business?”

“You are my business,” John barked. His anger was rising, nearly equally his concern.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Sherlock growled.

“So you’re seething and your phone just had to die because you’re alright?” John snapped. “You’ve been cooped up in the flat for days willingly, and now you’re—“

“—Fuck off! Just fuck off, John!” Sherlock interrupted, his voice booming. He flung himself up and stalked into the kitchen.

John’s nose burned as the detective passed. As quickly as it had come it was gone, but it was clear it had come from the detective himself.

Perhaps he had a UTI? That would explain the trips to the loo, maybe the anger, perhaps even that acrid smell.

John sighed and took in a few deep breaths, dragging in air in heavy gulps, attempting to calm his racing heart and mind. He couldn’t speculate any longer, he had to know.

He gave Sherlock and himself fifteen minutes to calm down before he swallowed hard and stood up, ready to face down his best friend. Despite it all, it was clear Sherlock needed help. John knocked on the closed bedroom door.

“Sherlock?”

“Go away,” Sherlock said. John counted it as a win that the statement was not riddled with expletives or screamed at him.

“That’s not going to happen,” John said, resting his shoulder against the cool wood of the door frame. “Not until I know you’re alright. You’ve not been yourself. No experiments, no begging Lestrade for cases. Then the phone thing just now, cursing at me.” John shook his head. “You smell off, Sherlock. I need to check on you, please.”

“Oh God!” Sherlock moaned.

“What?” John asked, alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

“You smelled me?”

“I didn’t get a good scent but your natural scent is off. It’s bitter now. Burns.”

“Fuck!” Sherlock cried. There was a crash.

“Sherlock,” John said, concern through the roof now. His heart thudded in his chest. “What is going on? Please let me in.”

“You weren’t supposed to know! No one was supposed to know!” Sherlock wailed.

“Sherlock,” John said, trying the door. It was locked. “Sherlock, let me in, please. Let me in.”

“You weren’t supposed to know!” Sherlock wailed again.

“Sherlock, please!” Suddenly the door flung open and Sherlock stood in the doorway, hair a tangled mess, eyes red, tears falling down his face. His dressing gown hung off his shoulder and half of it trailed the floor.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” Sherlock said, dropping his head.

“Know what?” John said, stepping into the room. The bitter smell radiated off of Sherlock comparable to a seriously bad cologne. It was harsh, like a lemon scented ammonia. Something was seriously wrong. John rubbed as his nose as Sherlock remained still with his head down. “Know what, Sherlock? What am I not supposed to know?”

“I’m an omega. Starting my heat,” Sherlock whined, turning away from John and racing into his en suite loo. The door slammed shut, effectively cutting John off from the strong lemon scent.

John stood frozen in the door. Sherlock an _omega?_ No. The man radiated alpha in every way possible. Even his pheromones had been powerful, strong, smelling of cedar wood and cinnamon. He always smelled particularly pleasing to John. The man was an alpha. Right?

But come to think of it, that scent was off, harsh, and it did have undertones of heat hormones… But Sherlock had never even… John’s mind was whirling. He found himself in the kitchen, making tea. He was British through and through and tea fixed everything.

He needed to help Sherlock. The explanation could come later.

Once two cuppas were steaming on the table, John knocked on the loo door.

“Sherlock,” he spoke through, keeping his voice soft and calm. “Sherlock, please come out, let’s talk.”

“Go ‘way,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Please, Sherlock. Come on, let’s talk this out. We’ll figure it out. I’ll help you.” John heard the sharp intake of breath and then a flurry of movement in the bathroom. He stepped back just as the door flew open and Sherlock loomed in the doorway. His eyes were red, swollen, and the tear tracks were still evident on his face. Something akin to fury simmered in the tears.

“You’ll help me?” He snarled, advancing on John.

“Yes,” John said, backing away, unsure where the change in attitude came from.

“What will you do? Fuck me into the floor? Fuck me nice and hard so I don’t know up from down?”

“No,” John said. “Of course not. I just want to help you, Sherlock. Whatever you need. I don’t want to… why would you think that?”

“Oh don’t pretend, John,” Sherlock hissed. “You’re an alpha. All you want to do is mount omegas in heat. Mount us, fuck us, and leave us in the gutter.”

John flinched as the sting of Sherlock’s words cut into him. Sherlock didn’t really think that about him? Did he? His stomach rolled.

“An omega in heat is just a fuck toy to an alpha,” Sherlock sneered. “Maybe all I need is a bit of John Watson’s cock and I’ll be right as rain.”

John stepped around the corner and pulled his coat down from the hook. He couldn’t deal with this. He was slipping his arms into the sleeves when Sherlock came around the corner, eyes narrowed, brow drawn down.

“Where are you going?”

“I wanted to talk to you about this whole thing. I wanted to get all the facts and lay out a plan that you were comfortable with to ease your heat. But seeing as how I’m such a shit person and friend you clearly think so highly of to even think those things about me, never mind voicing them aloud, I am going to leave.”

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot as John put on his gloves.

“John,” he tried, voice no longer carrying the weighted fury of just moments ago.

“Fuck off, Sherlock,” John bit out, tears catching in his throat. “I’m clearly not what you need or want so I’m going to leave before you let it slip how much you hate me. If you’ve never been able to tell how I feel… oh fuck it.”

Sherlock watched with abject horror as the one person in his life who had given a damn about him, walked away.

The front door closed quietly.

Sherlock’s screams were anything but.


	2. Chapter 2

Forty-five minutes later, John found himself at Mycroft’s office desperately hungry for an explanation as to how his friend and flat mate was just now coming to him about being an omega. _How had he hidden it? Why?_

John didn’t wait for the elder Holmes to extend an invitation into his office and strode in, head up, shoulders pulled back.

“John,” Mycroft said smoothly, face betraying nothing as John stalked up to his desk.

“What the fuck is Sherlock doing having a heat?” John growled. “And I am hoping that you have one hell of a good answer, Mycroft Holmes because right now I’m this close to taking you by the necktie—“

“No need for threats, John,” Mycroft interrupted coolly.

“Sherlock is an omega,” John growled. “How in the fuck is that possible?

“Well as a physician, I would assume you know the biology of…” Mycroft found himself pulled from his chair and across his desk by his necktie. John breathed heavily.

“Stop fucking around,” he growled. “My best mate is having a heat right now and I don’t have time to stand here while you prance around the actual issue. Why is Sherlock just now presenting?” John said, speaking slowly and pointedly. Mycroft glanced down at where John’s hand was fisted in his tie. John let him go with a slight push against his chest.

After straightening his suit, Mycroft looked at John approvingly.

“Your diligence in regards to my brother is honorable," Mycroft took a breath. "Sherlock was born an omega. Back when we were children, as you undoubtedly know, male omegas were extremely rare, more so than they are today. Because they are unable to conceive but still go through heats, they were at very high risk for abduction and being sold on the market for _unsavory_ reasons,” Mycroft’s voice dripped contempt and disdain. His frown pulled his mouth tightly down. “My parents did not wish my brother to have that risk. They also had seen the way that omegas were treated and wanted to shield Sherlock from that as much as possible. When he was just a few days old, he had an internal suppression device put in. It changed his hormones and successfully fooled his body into believing it was an alpha.” Mycroft motioned to the seat in front of his desk. John sat down, eyes locked onto Mycroft.

“My brother knew about his status but chose to continue using the internal device. I suspect that it may have come dislodged during his stint in Serbia and just recently dropped out without my brother’s knowledge.”

“Can we have it put back in? After his heat?” John asked, knowing that once a heat started, it had to complete. But he'd never actually encountered a device like the one Sherlock had apparently had all his life. They'd covered them briefly in a class in med school all those years ago but nothing stuck out in John's mind. Devices like these were too far out of price range for nearly all of his patients and, as an alpha, he'd never needed information on them.

“I’m afraid not,” Mycroft said, sighing. “Once the body has had a heat, there’s no fooling it with this particular device, John,” he said, eyeing John carefully. “Do you have a problem with my brother being an omega?”

“No,” John said, meeting Mycroft’s accusing glare with one of his own. “But your brother does. He’s spent the last thirty years being an alpha and suddenly he’s not? Your brother is not going to cope well with that.”

Mycroft seemed pleased with John’s answer. A small twitch of the corners of his lips alerted John to the man's pleasure. 

“There are many more options available now to people like Sherlock. There were many who followed the same path as he. I believe he will be eligible for surgery, after he finishes this heat.”

John’s phone buzzed. .

_Inspector Dimmock has requested my presence at a crime scene. SH_

Sherlock had managed to procure a new phone, apparently. Just as John was about to put his phone back into his pocket, ignoring the git, it buzzed again.

_I would really appreciate it if you would meet me there. SH_

John bit the inside of his cheek as he read the address. The man was a right bastard. John sighed. He knew he was going to go. He couldn’t stay away knowing that his friend was going out during a heat. The bastard was putting himself in serious danger. While the days of old were behind them, there was still a great risk for Sherlock right now. Any unbonded alpha could… John swallowed hard.

Mycroft was watching him with a knowing look.

“I will send Anetha out to gather supplies. Please go wrangle my brother before he gets himself into more trouble than usual.”

“Ta,” John said, standing and making his way out the door.

“John,” Mycroft said. “I trust that you will not take advantage of my brother. I trust that you will care for him. I thought you should know that. I am happy that he has you.”

John couldn’t think of anything to say to the seriously uncharacteristic sentimentality from Mycroft Holmes, but he wore the smile on his face all the way out to the street.


	3. Chapter 3

John arrived at the crime scene, eyes peeled for the detective. Moments after stepping out of the cab he smelled his own cologne on the air. Sherlock clearly had used it in an attempt to cover up the scent of his heat. It wasn’t working. The drive up to this private estate was long and winding.John thought he'd never reach the scene.

John got a phone call from Sherlock’s new number when he estimated he had to be at least half way up to the home. He answered it but instead of hearing Sherlock speak to him, he was speaking to someone else.

“I’m not interested,” Sherlock snapped. “Go away.”

“You’re in heat,” Dimmock’s voice rang into John’s ear, all but salivating. John growled and hastened his pace down the drive.

“Yes, and you’re an idiot. If we’re done trading obvious statements, I have some things to investigate and you have somewhere else to fuck off to.”

“Don’t be like that,” Dimmock cooed, voice growing closer.

“Leave me alone,” Sherlock said, angrily, but John could catch the fear in his timber.

“You’re in pain,” Dimmock said, the smile clear in his tone. “I can help you.”

“I don’t want your help,” Sherlock gasped. John’s rage was close to boiling. He began to sprint.

“I’m going to help you,” Dimmock crooned and Sherlock whimpered. John felt the rage replace his blood with fire as he raced around the house.

“Dimmock!” John’s bellowed. Sherlock was hunched over with his back against a tree. He looked up as John stalked over to them, with wide eyes and a face pinched in pain but John could see the relief cross his features. John easily planted himself between the inspector and Sherlock. He reached up and grabbed the bottom of John’s jacket, fisting it in his large hand.

John stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, eyes locked right on to Dimmock’s. Dimmock took an unconscious step backward.

“If you so much as lay a hand on him,” John’s voice rumbled from deep in his chest. “I will break it off of your body and throw it into the Thames.” John snarled at the now wide-eyed Inspector. “If you so much as lay a finger on Sherlock, now, or at any point in the future, without his express permission,” John growled. “I will _ruin_ you, Dimmock. In whatever ways I can.”

Dimmock stood there, mouth open like a fish out of water for a full half a minute before his mouth snapped closed. He pulled his shoulders up and uncrossed his arms, dropping them to his hips. He attempted to school his face into something resembling affronted.

“Is-is that a threat?” Dimmock stuttered. He did not manage to pull of the affronted look, but rather of a terrified Chihuahua caught under foot of a jaguar. And a Jaguar John was. Normally he did not exude alpha pheromones. He didn’t use any special shampoos or soaps to boast his status. He had honestly never seen the point of such an endeavor. His normal scent was a clean soap smell with the barest hints of alpha undertones. So bare, that if you weren’t looking for it, you’d miss it.

The last couple of hours John’s alpha pheromones had become more active, reacting to Sherlock’s omega hormones unconsciously. But the scent had still be dim, diluted. John hadn't been able to smell himself. But now as John faced down the inspector, his pheromones were flooded with powerful alpha scent. Dimmock’s own beta pheromones smelt like cheap perfume under John’s woodsy, gunpowder scent.

“Yes,” John stated simply, crossing his arms. “Yes it is.” Dimmock looked between John and Sherlock, eyes wide.

“You can’t threaten me. I’m an Inspector!”

“You keep trying to hide behind that badge, see how that works out for you in the end,” John said, voice low and calm. “Do not test me, Dimmock. Do not test me especially when it comes to Sherlock. Because,” John leaned forward and up into Dimmock’s face. “I will _end_ you.” John chuckled. 

Dimmock spluttered. John smiled his infamous angry smile and Dimmock went silent.

“Now kindly piss off and do your job,” John said, turning his back to the inspector. Sherlock watched as Dimmock retreated with his tail between his legs to the house, where the actual crime had taken place.

John eased Sherlock up from his hunch and dusted off the ends of the Belstaff from force of habit. Sherlock loved that coat more than any other worldly possession and John had long ago found himself nearly as fond of the black coat as Sherlock. After a quick dusting, he steered Sherlock to the nearest bench, tucked under another set of trees. Without a word, Sherlock shakily allowed it, dropping down gracelessly when he reached it. It was clear that Sherlock was in serious pain. Lines were heavy on his face as he attempted to control his breathing. He panted with each wave of pain ripping through him.

John knelt down in front of the bench and held out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at the outstretched limb and then at John’s face, blinking rapidly.

“I want to check your pulse,” John explained simply. Sherlock extended his shaking hand to John’s and took in a couple of deep breaths to try and calm his racing heart.

John concentrated on what counting what amounted to a rabbit’s heartbeat under his fingers before giving Sherlock a once over. Flushed cheeks, dotted with bright red fever splotches, bright, wet red-rimmed eyes. His shoulders were hunched and his free hand was pressed tightly against his low abdomen. The poor man's entire frame trembled in pain.

“Scale of 1 to 10?”

“8,” Sherlock said softly, ducking his head. “8 and a half.” He swallowed. “Wavers just a bit.”

“You’re an idiot,” John said, simply. “A bloody fucking idiot for coming out when you’re feeling this bad.”

“I know,” Sherlock said.

“Then why’d you do it?” John asked, standing up to text Mycroft to send a car. No way was he putting Sherlock in a cab feeling, and _smelling_ like he was. He smelled like ripe plums, with slight cinnamon and chemical undertones. He smelled mouth-watering. John swallowed.

“Because you’d come _here_.”

John’s hand froze as it moved to put his phone away.

“What?” He asked looking down at Sherlock who had pulled his legs up onto the bench and wrapped his arms around them, looking for all the world like a five year old in his father’s too-big coat.

“It… I didn’t know how else to….”

“What? Please explain to me why you carted yourself off to a crime scene for all the world to smell you and risk any number of unspeakable things happening?” John was trying really hard to reign in his anger but the thought of Dimmock, of _anyone_ laying a hand on his Sherlock… he couldn’t bear the thought. He refused to give anymore thought to the question of when he started calling Sherlock _his._ Because, he realized, the moment that he’d killed a man for Sherlock, the detective had become his. His and his alone.

“You left and I didn’t think you were coming back,” Sherlock said quickly, eyes closed. “I wanted you to come home. And I knew that you’d come to the crime scene. Not for me, but, because… well it’s what we do isn’t it?”

“You thought I showed up here because of the crime scene?” John had to fight to keep his voice level. Anger flooded his system again and he had to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and count to ten. He had to remind himself that Sherlock wasn’t exactly well-versed in relationships of any sort with other human beings. Sherlock was in pain and clearly having trouble thinking so maybe that had played into it all. As soon as thethought crossed his mind, John's anger vanished. In its place was a warm feeling of affection and a slight sadness. Sherlock deserved to have people in his life that loved him and showed him what that really meant.

“No?” Sherlock asked, finally looking up at John with owlish eyes.

“No. I came because you asked me to. I came because you aren’t well and you went gallivanting off into the city alone like a berk.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, blinking rapidly again.

“Oh is right you dolt,” John said.

 _Car at the front of the house._ Mycroft’s text was welcome.

“I-I don’t… hurts, John,” Sherlock said, both hands now pressing into his low abdomen. “Hurts. What’s happening?”

“Breathe,” John directed gently as he helped Sherlock stand. Sherlock’s knees shook and threatened to give out. John slid under Sherlock’s arm and used himself as a crutch. He was all but holding the taller man up. “Breathe, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock gasped.

“I’ve got you,” John said. “Just a little farther.”

The two slowly made their way to the car. Sherlock had to stop multiple times, bending in half as the cramps tore through him.

By the time they reached Baker Street, Sherlock’s pain had only worsened.

“Shh,” John cooed, carting the teary man up the stairs. “Almost there. Then we’ll get you sorted.”

John bypassed the sofa and continued on to the bedroom. He pulled the Belstaff off and hung it on the back of the door as Sherlock sat down heavily on the mattress.

“Fuck,” Sherlock groaned, dropping his head to his knees.

“I’m finding you a painkiller,” John said, easing his phone back from his pocket. A text from Mycroft had gone unnoticed.

_Anetha will have the items at your flat within the next two minutes. Take care of him, John. Please._

John knew that the Holmes brothers had their outs and disagreements. Siblings often do. Though Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s were a bit more large-scale than most. But the bond between these brothers was unbreakable. Sherlock liked to pretend that he didn’t give a shit about his brother but John knew the truth. He’d seen the lengths Sherlock would go for his brother. Of course, he’d never make it easy on Mycroft but he was always going to have his older brother’s back. And Mycroft, well Mycroft would bring the government down onto whomever dared to even so much as think of harming Sherlock. John smiled.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, heaving out a long sigh. He raised up slowly, no longer pressing against his abdomen. This wave of severe cramps appeared to have passed. He grabbed a few tissues from the table next to his bed and wiped at his eyes before blowing his nose.

“He’s gotten you some pain killers and some other things.”

“Nosy bastard,” Sherlock groaned. "Don't want the pain killer just yet."

“Big brother,” John corrected. "You sure?"

“Same thing,” Sherlock said, lobbing the tissue right into the rubbish bin by the door. John rolled his eyes at how graceful Sherlock could make the simple act of throwing away snotty tissues. "Yes."

“You went to see him.”

“I did.”

“Learn what you needed?” Sherlock stretched, grunting as the sore muscles pulled. He rubbed his face with his hands.

“I got the basics. Don’t think that you’ve gotten out of talking to me about it.” Sherlock sighed. John looked at Sherlock carefully, judging the detective. He was sickly, sweat still clinging to his skin. His posture was more relaxed but still tense. His eyes were dull but aware.

“Can you get undressed by yourself?” Sherlock shot him a look. “Mate, I just had to carry you up the stairs.”

“They’ve passed. I’m just going to strip to my pants, visit the toilet, and then attempt to suffocate myself with my pillow,” Sherlock said, standing up slowly. John remained at the door until he was sure that Sherlock wasn’t going to keel over. “Will you stay close?” Sherlock asked, words tumbling out as though he were afraid he’d chicken out and not ask. The angry detective of just hours prior was now replaced with a soft, needy one.

“I’ll be right here. Not going anywhere.”

John waited while Sherlock disrobed and took his visit to the loo. When he heard Sherlock lift the toilet lid, he slipped away to the kitchen. The box of items from Anetha sat on the kitchen table. There was a case of hydration supplement bottles as well. John popped a few in the fridge. He grabbed the bottle of light pain killers, hoping that maybe that would be enough to get Sherlock through the next couple of days so they could avoid using the heavy duty stuff. He pulled out the pre-measured syringes and set them on the table. He looked at them carefully, knowing that Mycroft wouldn't give Sherlock a danger drug but the unease still struck. He didn't want to have to give Sherlock a drug like this because it would mean the pain was unbearable. And the thought of Sherlock in that sort of pain... it made John nauseated and his skin crawl. He returned to lean against the wall outside of Sherlock's bedroom. He dropped his head back and began to hum as Sherlock took care of what John knew was uncomfortable business. Despite his body not being able to birth children, it attempted to clean itself out anyway.

When Sherlock finished, he appeared out of the bathroom clad only in his black silk boxers looking wan and weak. He tugged on the hem of one of the boxer’s legs uncomfortably. His entire frame trembled.

“It won’t last,” John said. “Usually one round is all. Possibly two, maybe three, but it won’t last more than that.” Sherlock looked relieved. “Drink this and take these,” John instructed, handing over the bottle and the pills as Sherlock lowered himself down to the bed. Sherlock didn’t even look at the label or give the pills a second glace and instead popped them into his mouth and greedily drank the entire contents of the bottle. “There’s another bottle here on your table and there’s a stock of them in the fridge. Drink as much as often as you can. If you feel sick, ease back but don’t stop, okay? Hydration is key right now.” Sherlock nodded, easing back down to the mattress with a wince.

John pulled the blankets up to cover Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock said, catching John’s wrist with a cold hand. He swallowed hard. “I-I shouldn’t have said those things earlier. I know- I know you, you’re not… you’re my John and you’d never… I’m sorry.”

John’s heart swelled at the possessive Sherlock had attached to him. His face broke into a sad smile.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. Your hormones are all over the place. It’s alright.”

”Please forgive me,” Sherlock said, eyes dropping heavily as the events of the day caught up to him and the comfort of his bed threatened to pull him under quickly. “Please.”

“I forgive you,” John breathed, taking a chance and placing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. The skin was warm, slightly tangy from sweat. “I forgive you, you git.”

He didn’t miss the smile on Sherlock’s face as he pulled away.

His lips tingled for an hour.

He could taste Sherlock the entire time he quietly cleaned up the apartment. He unconsciously kept licking his lips as he set about placing out various things from the box Anetha had brought. Fluffy pillows and blankets in case Sherlock felt like nesting. A pack of libido suppressants. A pack of underwear that Sherlock would scorn at but would appreciate when his body began producing its own lubricant. John didn’t even want to know what the lanky man spent on those gorgeous silk boxers he favored. More than John would dream of spending, for sure.

In the box there were a variety of various _toys_ and aids for Sherlock. John’s face went beet red at the thought of _Anetha_ picking out sex toys for their flat. No. Not going there. At least John knew with a hard confidence that Mycroft hadn’t gotten them. That would require _legwork a_ nd John knew the older Holmes detested even the idea of such a banal thing. It was unlikely that Sherlock would need them this heat because the first heat or two heats weren’t usually rampant with sexual urges because they came when the omega was younger. John put the box with the, erm, items, in a cupboard in the kitchen, knowing full well there was no honest way to know what was going to happen with Sherlock’s heat.

He returned back to the box on the table. Mycroft had also included a set of suppressants for John’s own libido. John took them willingly, knowing that he’d never fall to his hormones but a permanent erection would prove to be cumbersome in taking care of Sherlock.

There was also a couple sets of James Bond DVDs that John assumed Mycroft had sent knowing something about his little brother that John did not.

After John had placed the items out, he trudged upstairs to his own bed and collapsed into his cool sheets. His thoughts were on Sherlock as he pulled his favorite old army blanket up over his weary shoulders and drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

A blood curdling scream brought John immediately out of his slumber. He rolled up and out of the bed, hands raised in defense before he realized that there was no immediate danger to himself. At that thought, he barreled down the stairs and into Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock was screaming in agony,  upper body hanging over the edge of the bed. He began vomiting as soon as John reached him. John jumped back to avoid the puddle of sick. Sherlock's heaves were violent and the screams choked him. He dropped back down, panting, a high whine the only sound he was capable of making.  He mumbled and moaned and garbled words caught in his throat. His brain clearly had gone offline due to the pain.

“Fuck,” John said, panicking at the nonsensical detective. He raced to the kitchen to the syringes of pain medication were, yanking one off the table violently. He popped the cap off of the needle with his teeth, spitting it across the room where it clattered against the hardwood. “Hold on for me, Sherlock,” he called as he raced back to the bedroom. “I’ve got something for you. Just hold on.” He cursed as the detective arched off the bed in a howl.

“I need you to hold still, Sherlock,” John tried. “I need to get this into a vein.” Sherlock wasn’t hearing him and John felt the guilt pang as he pinned Sherlock’s arm down and the detective howled in added fear. John made quick work of inserting the needle into the first viable vein he found and let Sherlock’s arm go to press back into his abdomen.

It was an agonizing fifteen minutes as the medication flooded through Sherlock’s system, easing tense muscles and calming over-firing nerves. John was hesitant to leave the whimpering mess on the bed but he needed supplies. He went into the kitchen, located a bucket, a few tea towels, and a package of frozen peas. He returned to the detective with the package of peas wrapped in a tea towel and pressed it low against Sherlock’s stomach, guiding Sherlock’s own hands to hold it there. He cleaned the vomit from Sherlock’s cheeks and chin with one of the spare towels before making quick work of the puddle of sick on the floor. He returned to sit down on the side of the bed, next to Sherlock’s hip. He leaned over Sherlock, running his fingers through the sweaty locks, dabbing away at the tears rolling down the sharp cheekbones.

“John,” Sherlock sighed as the pain lessened and he was present in his own mind again.

“There you are,” John said, pushing back the sweaty curls from Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock swallowed and grimaced.

“Did I vomit?” Sherlock weakly pushed himself up to lean against the headboard, eyes bleary with pain and the weight of the medication pushing and pulsing through his veins.

“All over the floor,” John said, easing the bottle of hydration supplement into Sherlock’s hand.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled after a swallow.

“It’s alright.” He gave a tired, lopsided shrug, nodding for Sherlock to drink a bit more. When he was satisfied that Sherlock was at least somewhat properly hydrated again, John pulled the blankets back up. “Don’t fight the pain killer, Sherlock. Let yourself relax. I’ve got you.”

“Always have me, my John,” Sherlock mumbled, sliding down to lie down fully.

“Always,” John breathed as Sherlock began to snore softly.

 

John stayed on the sofa, wanting to be close because he worried that the pain killer might not last Sherlock the night. He was unable to sleep and instead began cleaning his hand gun, the cold metal soothing in his heated palms. It forced him into a calm, meditated space. His hormones were scratching him from the inside out, very aware of the omega’s heat in the room down the hall. He swallowed another gulp of tea and a couple of acetaminophen.

Two hours later the screaming started again.

John barreled in through Sherlock’s open bedroom door and skidded across the hardwood as he attempted to stop his sprint. He flipped the lamp on and looked down at the bed.

Sherlock lay tangled up in the sheets, screaming for someone to leave John alone. He only had one hand free and it was swung wildly in a clear attempt at an offensive swing. Tears were again streaming down the sharp cheekbones

“Stop! Please! STOP! DON’T TOUCH JOHN DO NOT TOUCH MY JOHN!”

John took a step forward, fully prepared to wake Sherlock up from the nightmare when the wave of scent hit him square in the face. Lubricant. Sweet, mouth-watering lubricant. He glanced a look down and sure enough, Sherlock’s sheets were soaked in it.

“Sherlock,” John called. “Sherlock, wake up!” He grabbed one of Sherlock’s flailing arms and held it down. The other thrashed beneath the blankets but couldn’t get free. “Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!”

Pale eyes shot open and a scream burst from Sherlock unlike anything John had ever heard before.

“Shh, you’re alright, Sherlock,” John directed. He leaned forward just enough to put himself in Sherlock’s line of sight but not enough to crowd him. He still held Sherlock’s arm down. “You’re alright. Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock gasped and whined, chest heaving. “Where’s John? Where is my John?” Sherlock was still fighting the remnants of the nightmare.

God, John wished he could wrap Sherlock up and never let another thing hurt him, just to keep that panicked look off that beautiful face. “Sherlock,” John said, taking a deep breath. “Look at me, please.”

Wet, frightened eyes looked up at John.

“It’s me. It’s me, Sherlock. I’m here with you. You’re here with me. See?” John leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re here, in Baker Street, with me.”

“John,” Sherlock said, voice tight, sad. “John… the nightmare…”

“I know,” John said, putting his hand out. Sherlock took it, holding it tightly. “I know. But I’m right here. I’m right here.” John guided Sherlock’s hand to his bare chest, above his thumping heart. Sherlock sighed, eyes closing in what could only be described as relief.

Sherlock nodded. John squeezed the large hand under his own. Sherlock let out a breath and shook his head. “That nightmare just…it felt real.” He began to gasp again and closed his eyes. "So real... so real."

John waited for the gasps to ease, cooing in the back of this throat but Sherlock didn’t calm. Sherlock began spiraling into hyperventilation. John reacted on instinct and pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s.

John held deathly still after his lips made contact.

Sherlock froze, breath catching in his chest. His lips stayed still under John’s for a moment before they opened and Sherlock exhaled gently into John’s mouth. It was a cool, nearly spearmint flavor and John marveled at it. He kept the kiss chaste, gently mapping Sherlock’s lips with his own. They were soft, the cupid’s bow a crisp line on otherwise silky soft lips. Sherlock opened his mouth wider and John found his tongue being coaxed out. When John’s tongue didn’t immediately respond, Sherlock sucked at it. The message was clear. John mapped Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, dueling with Sherlock’s tongue for only a moment before its dominance was clear.

Sherlock moaned as John pulled away.

John couldn’t resist and attacked Sherlock’s mouth again with fervor. They kissed until Sherlock pulled away, breathless. A small trail of saliva followed their lips’ separation and John frowned at how erotic he found it.

“John?” Sherlock asked a few moments later, breaths still gasping but now for an entirely different reason. “We’ve… have we just… changed our…?” John scratched at his head.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Yeah, I think… it’s not the heat, Sherlock. Please don’t think that it’s just hormones.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock reassured and John smiled. He leaned forward to press another kiss to Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth. He sucked Sherlock’s bottom lip in between his teeth and then bit down just enough to rush blood to Sherlock’s mouth but not break the skin. Sherlock gasped and then groaned deep in his chest. A sound so heavenly and deep. It was nearly a purr.

John’s hand cupped Sherlock’s face as he pulled away again. Sherlock’s face was flushed, his eyes dilated heavily with arousal. His lips were nearly cherry red. Sherlock licked them unconsciously and John’s eyes nearly crossed from the rush of pleasure it brought him.

Sherlock shifted, face scrunching up as the wet sheets stuck to him. John had done a wonderful job of distracting him from the nightmare and apparently the wet sheets as well. Realization set in and Sherlock gasped. John sat back, concerned.

“Oh god,” Sherlock said, embarrassment flooding the pale face. He fought to get out of the blankets and then flung himself toward the toilet. He fell against the hardwood, hard, and John winced. Before he could move, Sherlock was scrambling up into the loo, slamming the door. John sighed, fingers touching his tingling lips.

He set about changing the sheets and dragging the soaked, sweet-smelling ones, to the wash. He absolutely did not stand in front of the wash relishing in the scent. He did _not._

He returned to Sherlock’s room but the detective was not out of the loo. It was still silent in there. John knocked on the door.

“Go away!”

“Sherlock,” John said. “I’m not going away.”

“Please.”

“Why?”

“Because I am mortified,” Sherlock said simply.

“Please let me in,” John said. “You took a hard fall.” The rest went unspoken but was clear. “Sherlock?”

“The door’s not locked,” Sherlock mumbled. John found him sitting starkers on the toilet, head bowed and turned away. His pants were flung into the corner, and John felt guilty. Usually the lubrication didn’t start this soon but John should have known that Sherlock’s first heat would have been off the usual schedule.

“Sherlock, it’s perfectly natural,” John explained.

“I pissed the bed, John,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m thirty years old and I pissed the bed. That’s not natural.”

“Sherlock,” John said, realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. Sherlock didn’t realize that... oh _Christ._ “Sherlock that wasn’t… you didn’t piss the bed.”

Sherlock’s head jerked up at that statement, eyes owlish and frightened.

“That was lubricant,” John said. “Your body is trying to get ready for mating.”

Sherlock’s face fell and he buried his head in his hands before a wail escaped him.

“Sherlock,” John said sadly. “Sherlock, it’s okay.” John fought his instinct for just a moment before stepping forward and gently pulling Sherlock to rest his head against John’s stomach. Sherlock cried against John for what felt like hours.

When tears slowed and Sherlock’s breathing evened out, John leaned down to kiss his head.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and back to bed,” John said calmly. He waited until Sherlock let him go to step away and turn the shower on. Sherlock blew his nose again.

“I hate this,” Sherlock said as John eased him up. His legs shook. The pain killer was still rampant in his system.

“I know. I’m sorry.” John helped Sherlock step over the lip of the tub. Once Sherlock was under the spray, leaning against the walls, John stepped back to get a pair of the pants that Anetha had brought.

“Don’t leave!” Sherlock yelped.

“I’ve got to get you some new pants,” John said. “I’ll not be a minute.” Sherlock made a noise of distress but did not speak again.

“John?” Sherlock called, not half a minute later, just as John reached the kitchen. He jogged back the few steps to the bathroom.

“Right here,” John said, putting his head into the room. Sherlock was seated on the floor of the tub.

“I- my legs are…” Sherlock groaned. “Can you come help me?”

John’s eyes roamed over the pale body. Sherlock was all angles and sharp bone lines, a work of damn art. John’s eyes swept over Sherlock’s half-hard erection and he thanked god for the suppressants Mycroft had sent to him so his own cock wouldn’t take an interest despite the sight and smell of the man in front of him.

“You’ve taken a suppressant,” Sherlock mumbled as John reached in and turned the shower off, flipping the faucet on to fill the tub.

“Yes. An erection would get in my way.”

“Not mine,” Sherlock mumbled.

“What?” John asked, heart pounding.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, ducking his head. John took extra time to wash the sweat out of Sherlock’s hair.

“We’ve got aids for you,” John said, blush creeping up on his cheeks as he revisited the topic, fingers tangled in Sherlock’s soapy curls. “Things to help you through the urges, if you get any. This heat isn’t likely to bring those but we don’t know for sure. I’m not going to bed you until after this heat. If that is something you’d like.”

Sherlock mumbled something else so John remained silent, rinsing the shampoo from Sherlock’s hair.

After his bath, John toweled Sherlock off, allowing the detective to lean against him. His scent, despite the overlaying soap smell, was nearly overwhelmingly pleasant. Sherlock’s nose turned up at the sight of the pants but he didn’t say anything as John eased them up his legs. John tried really hard not to think about the cock inches from his face.

The beautiful, long cock that, like the rest of the man, seemed to be cut from the finest porcelain. He couldn’t help himself. He really wanted to touch it. Kiss it. Lavish it and see how he could get Sherlock to scream in pleasure from his touch.

But John didn’t want their first time to be chalked up to hormones. He’d really rather their first kiss hadn’t happened under a heat but he was going to be damned before he’d regret that it actually happened. Not for one fucking second.

“Will you stay here?” Sherlock asked when he was back in his bed as John turned to leave. “With me? Tonight? Please?”

John paused in the doorway.

“You want me to stay?” John clarified.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock whispered. “Please stay with me.”

John flipped the lamp off as he lay down on the bed, hitting the down pillow a few times to fluff it up. Sherlock curled toward him, the damp hair tickling the edge of John’s shoulder.Sherlock slid over a few millimeters at a time, clearly testing the waters. John shifted, lifting his arm and suddenly a warm Sherlock was tucked against his side, legs tangled with his own, a mop of curls tucked under his chin.

John had never been more content.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke John up as another wave of cramps began. "Just hold me?" Sherlock asked. "They're not bad enough for..." he trailed off, pressing himself into a ball and scooting toward John. John was thankful that Sherlock wasn't in serious pain because it was still going to be another two hours before he could administer another dose. Sherlock’s fingers shook as John eased the large hand into his own.

Sherlock sighed a while later as the wave eased. He raised his head to look at John.

“I’m scared, John.” Sherlock’s pupils were blown so big that his irises were mere slivers. “Make it stop, please.” He pulled his hand from John's to wipe at his nose. John sat up and rested his back against the headboard. He opened his arms, giving Sherlock the option to come up completely into his arms. Sherlock clambered up into his lap and buried his face into John’s neck.

“It will be okay. I will get you through this. We have to get you through this heat. I can’t stop it now that it’s started. But once it’s over, we’ll talk about the options.”

Sherlock’s head shot up and he looked at John cautiously.

“Options?”

“Yes,” John said with a nod. “There are a variety of things we can do. There’s surgery. There’s different suppressants.”

“Surgery?”

“Yeah,” John said, hand idly stroking up Sherlock’s bare back. His fingers danced along Sherlock’s spine, bouncing along the bones. Sherlock’s warm marble skin felt lovely beneath his hands. “They can remove what makes you an omega.”

“They can?” Sherlock looked like a he had just been given the world.

“Oh yeah. You’ll not ever have to worry about this again.”

“Would-would you want to…” Sherlock sighed, ducking his head back against John’s neck.

“Would I what?” John asked, still playing the bones of Sherlock’s spine with his fingers. He found himself tapping out the beat to Sherlock’s newest composition.

“Nothing,” Sherlock mumbled into his throat.

“What, Sherlock?”

“Would you want to be with anyone who’d had that surgery?” John’s fingers didn’t stop their movement but his heart stuttered in his chest.

“Well,” John said and Sherlock let out a gasping breath. John rushed to finish his thought. “I wouldn’t want to be with anyone that wasn’t you.” Sherlock tensed in his arms before he pulled back and looked at John, eyes searching his face. His eyes were hazy with residual pain and the drugs still coursing through his veins but Sherlock was very much present and aware. The thought brought another stop to John’s heart.

_Here it goes._ John swallowed hard.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I want to be with you, Sherlock Holmes. In whatever way you’ll have me. If you’re an omega, or not, or if you find a way to turn into an alpha. Because we both know if anyone could find out how to do that, it’s you.” John sighed as Sherlock remained impassive, not taking the compliment. John panicked a little. What if he’d just ruined everything? “If you want to stay flat mates and friends, well I’ll take that. If you want to be more, I’ll take that too.”

“Not gay?” Sherlock said, voice small. He seemed terrified of reminding John of his reported ‘not-gay’ sexuality. He looked afraid to hope. John wanted to never see that look on Sherlock’s face again.

“No,” John shrugged, taking in a deep breath. He was shit at this sort of stuff. He really needed a drink. Preferably a strong three fingers of the whiskey stored in the kitchen behind Sherlock’s collection of various insects. But right now he had a lapful of Sherlock and wasn’t about to give that up.

John knew better than to try and blame this on the hormones. Yeah, maybe they were making his mouth a little looser, taking the place of the alcohol he was craving, but they weren’t fabricating years of love. “I’m bisexual. I’m really demi- I guess. Really Sherlock-sexual. I've never really been hot for most any other men, but, well, you know, you’re you, aren’t you?” Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together. “Oh, Sherlock,” John said sadly, tightening his grip on the taller man in a quick but fierce hug. “You are am amazing person. You’re brilliant, and kind, and you’re a lot softer than you want to let on. You’re my best friend and I would die for you. I only fought the assumptions of being gay because, well you made it pretty clear that you were married to your work. I didn’t want to complicate things with the possibility of your flat mate fancying you. Plus, I’m not actually gay. If anyone ever accused me of bisexuality, they’d be met with a shrug and probably an unconscious glance at you.”

Sherlock had stayed ramrod still throughout John’s emotional word vomit.

“You- you want to be with me? Me? The sociopath who leaves body parts in the fridge and can’t read social clues and forgets that the earth and the sun, well, that they do that thing that they do? This has got to be just the hormones talking,” Sherlock said, ducking his head with a wet breath.

“You aren’t a sociopath, Sherlock,” John said, gently. He put his fingers under Sherlock's chin and pulled the detective's face up to meet his own gaze. Sherlock needed to see the truth in his eyes. “You forget I’ve seen you. _You._ I know you’re not what you want others to see.  You don’t want to give people the opportunity to hurt you. You've let your walls down around me. You trust me. I trust you. And fuck my hormones. This is _me_.” Sherlock looked at him again and seemed to be content with the truth about the hormones having no real role in this revelation.

“But the body parts and the…”

“That makes you, _you._ It makes my life interesting.”

Sherlock looked like a fish out of water, mouth open, eyes fluttering in a rapid blink.

John took in a deep breath. He was already out there, why not seal the deal? He swallowed a few times, attempting to school his thoughts. These sort of emotional talks were not him. He didn’t do them. But, he realized with smile, it wouldn’t be the first time he did something unusual for the man in his lap.

“I love the bloody violin at three in the morning. I love the natural inability you have at cooking eggs. I love how you know how I take my tea even though you rarely bother to make any. I love how your eyes light up when you’re on a puzzle. I love your laugh. I love finding you deep in conversation with Billy. This isn’t just a hormonal thing, Sherlock. It isn’t a new thing. I’ve felt this way for a long time. I love you, Sherlock.”

“Love…” Sherlock whimpered. “You love me.” John nodded despite the sentence not being a question.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I will take whatever you want to give me.”

“All of it,” Sherlock breathed. “I want to give you all of it, John.” John found himself in the tightest embrace he’d even had in his life as Sherlock wrapped both his arms and legs around the smaller man, all but crushing him. “My John.”

After a few moments, Sherlock’s body began to pull him back under the weight of sleep. John eased him down to the mattress, following him down.

He curled up protectively around Sherlock.

No one could tell them what the future would bring. John didn’t know what the future would bring. Perhaps Sherlock could have the surgery. Perhaps not. Whatever happened, John knew without a shadow of a doubt, he was going to be right there, beside, or trailing tight behind the long-legged, lanky git in his beloved Belstaff. They would make it work. They would be together. And that was all John wanted. It was all he’d ever wanted.

John, curled tighter against Sherlock. He wanted to be nowhere else in all of time and space than right here, holding onto the man he loved and adored.

“My Sherlock,” John breathed, as sleep began to claim him. “My Sherlock.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of Sherlock’s heat passed in much of the same way. Sherlock would wake in pain, John would administer whatever pain medication was appropriate and they would lay curled around each other. Luckily first heats usually only lasted a few days and Sherlock's heat seemed to actually be on track with that.

On the third and final day of the heat, John convinced Sherlock to come out into the main part of the flat. He got Sherlock settled onto the sofa and put in a James Bond DVD. Sherlock’s eyes widened comically and he made a squawking noise in the back of this throat.

“Mycroft?” He asked, eyes glued to the title menu.

“Yeah,” John said, nudging Sherlock up so that he could settle behind the detective. “He sent them. A fan are you?”

“I love these,” Sherlock gushed, settling back against John’s chest. John smiled. Sherlock admitting that he loved something always brought him cheer. And to hear this about something he’d think Sherlock would find banal and tedious, well that was a welcome surprise.

Sherlock watched the movie with rapt attention, mouth moving as he wordlessly spoke some of the lines.

John chuckled as Sherlock asked to watch another one.

“Problem?” Sherlock looked over his shoulder, brows drawn together in concern. John realized he had assumed John was going to make fun of him.

“I just love seeing you enjoy things,” John said, kissing Sherlock’s nose. “I want to find out everything that makes you happy.”

“You make me happy,” Sherlock said simply, eyes locked onto John’s. “You make me happy, John Watson.”

“Well that’s good to know,” John said. “You make me happy too. But I meant things like this,” he said, motioning to the end credits rolling across the screen. “I want to find out what you’ve always wanted to do and never did. What your heart desires to hold in your hands.”

“You.”

“Besides me,” John said with another kiss. “You already have me and I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock allowed John up to put in another movie.

“Can I have some more acetaminophen?”

John slipped into the kitchen and pulled the pills and another bottle of hydration supplement. Sherlock leaned back up, allowing John to slip back behind him.

“I love you,” Sherlock said, after taking the pills.

“I love you too, Sherlock,” John said.

“I will be rubbish at this,” Sherlock said as John navigated the remote to the DVD menu.

“What?”

“Being in a relationship.”

“Sherlock, we’ve been in a relationship for years.”

“But this is different.”

“There’s another layer, sure,” John said. “But the foundation is solid and still there. Sherlock, I’ve been your friend for years. I’ve seen you at your best and I’ve seen you at your worst. And I love you at both. You aren’t expected to change for me.”

“Can I though?” Sherlock asked softly. “What if I want to change some for you? Be, be a better,” he paused. “Partner, boyfriend, whatever we’re calling ourselves. I want to be good for you.”

“Be yourself,” John said, pressing his lips to the crown of Sherlock’s head. “Have rows with Mycroft. Buy Mrs. Hudson flowers when you think no one is looking. Solve crimes, chase criminals with me. Kiss me when the mood strikes you. Touch me when you want.”

“What about getting you things? Like flowers or…”                                                 

“Sherlock,” John said. He tightened his arms across Sherlock’s chest. “You don’t have to buy me things just because we’re in a relationship. Do what feels right to you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, nodding.

“The only things that I ask are for you be honest with me,” John swallowed hard. “And I ask that you never leave me like… like you did at Bart’s again. I know why you did it, I do, but Sherlock, I can’t lose you like that again. If you want to leave me, then tell me, but… please.” John’s eyes had filled with tears at the memory of his flat mate on the pavement. Sherlock turned in his arms and wrapped John up in his arms.

“I promise that I won’t ever leave you,” Sherlock said, roughly. “I won’t do that again, ever.”

“Thank you,” John breathed against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock situated himself where he was laying chest to chest with John, head placed above the doctor’s heart. They watched the movie like that, John’s hand playing in Sherlock’s curls.

“I think I’d really like a dog again,” Sherlock said when the movie was over. John looked down at him and he lifted his head. “You asked me what I’d like to hold and… well I think a dog would be nice.”

John smiled. “Another setter?” Sherlock shook his head, dropping it back down to John’s chest.

“A bulldog, I think,” Sherlock said. “An English bulldog.”

“We can start looking,” John said, kissing the curls.

“How very domestic of us,” Sherlock sighed happily. “Adopting a dog together.”

“Positively domestic,” John said, letting his eyes fall closed, arms tightening around Sherlock. “Love you,” he said, sleepily.

“I love you too,” Sherlock all but purred into his chest.


End file.
